The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Twenty-Four

"How was your week, Morana?" King-Consort Warrick Windsinger inquired from behind his desk, propping his elbows onto the obsidian surface.

Morana clasped her hands in front of her. It was all she could do to stop fiddling with her bracelet. Calder and Wisp pressed themselves between columns on either side of the room, and Zatharain stood next to his king. She would not look at any of them, despite the weight of their gazes upon her. "I have no complaints."

Nearly an entire day had passed since her visit with Queen Isleen. Alastair had let her sleep, slipping out of the room at some point. He'd returned the next day with breakfast, which she'd devoured like a starved dog. He pressed about her health, refusing to let her leave the room until she had properly recovered from whatever the queen's magick had done to her. Alastair was patient, studying her movements for any sign of furthering injury. He didn't ask again what the queen had said to her. Morana knew it wasn't the magick. No, it was something far worse that had made her stain that rug. She wished he was in the room with her now, instead of waiting behind the door.

Warrick reached for a bronze goblet and lifted it to his lips. He took a long drink of the contents, his sapphire gaze like lighting. He lowered the goblet to the desk. "Did you fancy my greenhouse? It was a wedding gift for my wife."

Morana kept her features as neutral as possible. Of course, he would know. The castle was crawling with spies. All courts were. "Yes, it was magnificent," she said and meant it, longing for the seclusion now.

A lean servant, donning a quarter-sleeved white robe with golden buttons and matching pants, moved from his place against the wall. He carried a bronze pitcher with both hands and paused at the side of Warrick's desk. The king didn't even look at him as he poured a deep red liquid into the goblet. "Captain Immeril has been kind to you, yes?"

"He has." She wouldn't let herself wonder what the king-consort may do to Alastair if he knew everything. Morana had a sickening feeling he wouldn't approve of the two of them sharing a bed. There was a possibility he already knew that, though.

Warrick's fingers steepled. "Interesting. And do you think you intrude on his courtly duties?"

The servant filled the goblet and then glided back to his place somewhere behind her.

"No, Majesty," Morana said evenly, despite the sudden palpitation in her chest. "His work is very important to him."

"He's told you as much?"

A test. "Just an observation." She made the mistake of meeting Zatharain's gaze. Those golden eyes shined with curiosity, so she looked away before he caught the lies she spilled.

Warrick's head tilted. "Ferryn told me what happened with my wife."

Morana swallowed the sudden urge to vomit all over again. Her skin became sticky, the room too warm despite the breeze that ventilated through the open windows. "Yes."

"Did she hurt you?" he inquired, but there was no concern there, rather bland interest.

"Her magick made me ill, that's all." She tensed as a bead of sweat rolled down her temples. She prayed he didn't notice it.

The king-consort relaxed into his high-back chair, large enough to fit another male comfortably next to him. His massive hands rested on the stone arms, curving inward, with a motif of jagged thorns carved into them. "I'm afraid that's the nature of dying fae. I'm happy to see you escaped unscathed, though. Her lightning used to be the most powerful magick in the court. It must yearn for release." He smiled. "Did she say anything of interest to you?"

Sirens went off in her skull. Her heart thundered. "She said something, but I couldn't make sense of it. She was mumbling."

The king held her gaze for an agonizing minute. The ticking of the clock boomed in her ears. At last, he nodded. "Well, I'm sure it was nothing to concern yourself with then. Are you feeling better today?"